


The Heist

by ifandom1513



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Episode: s01e05 The Heist, Heist, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifandom1513/pseuds/ifandom1513
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be honest, it was just sort of unbelievable. That we had all met each other and we all thought this was a good idea. Ryan needs to settle a score, Jack needs to feed his family, Gavin needs to buy himself a citizenship, Michael needs to buy his way out of jail, and nobody really knows why Geoff needs it but we know he needs it. As for me, I want to pay for university.<br/>My name is Ray Narvez Junior and this is how I got mixed up in the wrong crowd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I just want to get up the stairs

Ray  
Walking into Geoff Ramsey’s apartment was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. I knew it was a bad idea. I kept going through every possible bad thing that could happen.  
Scenario One: Geoff would say he was kidding about the heist, he would think I was a big fucking weirdo like everyone else and never talk to me again.   
Climbing the stairs was probably the hardest part. One; because with every step my heart sank lower into my stomach, and two; because there was no elevator and I’m lazy asshole.   
Scenario Two: Geoff was secretly an undercover cop tricking people into robbing Seven Elevens so he could bust them and put them in chains.  
A car sped down the street. I could hear the screech of the tires. No cops would come after that asshole. Los Santos had become the crime capital of the United States. The cops no longer bothered with speeders.   
Scenario Three: Geoff was secretly a drug dealer, and didn’t want to rob the Seven Eleven at all. He wanted me to smuggle drugs over the Mexican border. How racist.   
My heart thudded in my chest as I reached the top of the stairs and I realized I was holding my breath. I breathed in, trying to get some air in my lungs. I immediately regretted it. The place tasted like cigarettes and really, really old cheese. Like, fucking old.   
I looked around the outdoor apartment building. I mean, I shouldn’t have really been surprised. The place looked like a dump.   
There was a mix of old newspapers and decomposed food lining the walls. It smelt like someone had stashed a dead body on the roof. The night air was cool but under the harsh florescent lights I was sweltering. When I’d asked the clerk where I could find room four-two-three he just kind of stared at me. He shrugged and motioned to the top haft of the building. Those were my directions. Wow.   
Scenario Four: Geoff wasn’t his real name; he was an undercover secret agent trying to recruit people to work with him on website where they would paid to play video games.   
Now that scenario was the most ridiculous. Especially the video games part.   
I heard the screech of another car coming. I rolled my eyes. God damn, slow down. Someone’s going to get hit.   
Then I heard the loud unbearable bass of someone playing music. Oh good, you’ll run them over and not even hear their bones get crushed. Then the car pulled into the parking lot.   
It was a dinged up Honda. It was black with a giant splat of green paint on the hood. The front door had a huge dent in its side like it’d been T-boned on the way over. There were dark scratches in the paint where I realized someone had keyed the car.   
All in all, the car looked like it’d seen better days. But judging by how the driver had parked (parallel to the curb, covering three parking spots); he didn’t really care for it.   
“The fuck are you looking at?”  
I hadn’t realized it, but I’d stopped at the top of the stairs and had been standing there for a full minute. I’d also been staring at this gentleman’s shitty car.   
“I said, what the fuck do you think you’re looking at?” The man began to walk closer. He had a certain swagger about him. It seemed as though he was the kind of man who’d been a part of a gang. Make that a couple gangs.  
He had short, curly hair that was brownish. His face was pale, slightly chubbier and he had black rimmed glasses on which would have made him look studious, had he not had a gun under his shirt. This, by the way, was all too visible.  
“Your car,” I spoke up.   
“What?” he said menacingly. But like every other gangster in Los Santos, he will make the same assumption that I am Mexican. If I stand just right, I could intimidate him into backing off.  
I stood taller, trying to widen my shoulders. I spread my legs squarely apart. I tilted my head up slightly, and crossed my arms.   
“Your shitty car.”  
“What?”  
“Your shitty fucking car.”   
The man was at the bottom at the stairs now, and I was at the top. I eyed his gun, hoping not to appear as nervous as I felt. He noticed my gaze.   
“Are you Mexican?” he asked tilting his head up slightly to look at me.   
“What do you think?” I smirked. I had this white bastard. He would look me up and down, decide I was Mexican and walk the fuck away. I would not be shot today.   
“Puerto Rican.”  
“What?” I asked, dumbfounded. How did he...? Most people in Los Santos just looked at me and assumed Mexican. Los Santos is also the stupidest place in the United States. They also look at me and think I was an illegal immigrant even though we’re nowhere near the fucking border.   
“I grew up in a small neighbourhood, and a lot of my neighbors were Puerto Rican.” He shrugged, looking down, then his eyes darted up expectantly. His eyes looked like they were asking me if he was right. No, they looked at me like I was about to tell he was wrong.   
“Yeah, I’m Puerto Rican.” I looked anywhere but at him. I didn’t know where to look but I knew I sure as hell wasn’t going to look at him. We stood there in awkward silence until he reached out his hand.  
“My name is Michael Jones.” This would’ve been a nice introduction except there was still an entire flight of stairs in-between us. I quickly began stepping down the stairs and he met me haft way.   
“Ray Narvaez, Junior.”   
Michael smiled at me. I smiled back. Pleasantries on the stairs in a shitty outdoor apartment building with a stranger. What the fuck?  
“There aren’t very many Puerto Rican’s in Los Santos,” I said, questioningly. He had said he grew up in a neighborhood with them, but I could have sworn family was the only Puerto Rican family around.   
“No, you’re right.” Michael shook his head. “I’m from New Jersey.”  
I made a face. “What are Puerto Ricans doing there?”   
“I don’t fucking know. Ask them.”   
I didn’t really know how to end the conversation with Michael Jones from New Jersey, and clearly he didn’t either.   
We stood there awkwardly staring at each other. Finally Michael took a step up the stairs; I took the hint and turned up the stairs too.   
I walked down the balcony, looking at the numbers on the doors. There were maybe ten doors on the top floor. For some reason the room number was in the four hundreds.   
I couldn’t help but notice my new friend Michael Jones from New Jersey was doing the same thing. He had his room number written on crumpled piece of paper.   
Finally I found room four two three. I stopped, unsure of what to do. What was the protocol for meeting at a secret location for a heist? Did I knock? Was I supposed to bring wine? Should I have been dressed like a gangster?   
Michael was looking at me. I looked back. God damn, we are starting this again.   
“What?”   
Michael said nothing, only handed me the little sheet of paper that had his room number on it. He then knocked on Geoff’s door.  
423.  
It was all his paper said. It didn’t even say the name of the apartment building. All it said was the room number.   
“So, how do you know Geoff?” Michael offered the question up like he knew I was wondering what the fuck was going on.  
“Um, I don’t really. You?”  
“Uh...” Michael stopped. “One second.” Michael began to pound at the door. He began to wail on it like there was no tomorrow.   
“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, YOU FUCKTARDS!” he yelled. The man could’ve yelled for a living.   
Just as Michael reared back to give the door another good bashing, it swung open. On the other side of the door was the scariest motherfucker I’d seen in my life.   
He had huge shoulders and muscular arms. He was easily way over six feet tall. His head was bald. But the scary part was that he wore a mask. His mask was a hockey mask but it was covered in red paint.   
Michael pushed past, muttering that it took him long enough, but I slid past his cautiously.   
If there was going to be people like Michael Jones from New Kersey, and Mr. Mask Man, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do this anymore.  
What had I just gotten myself into?


	2. Meet the gang.

Looking around, I couldn’t help but wonder why we met in a dingy place like this. Although, I suppose since we were doing a heist that we couldn’t afford anything better.   
The apartment had only one entrance. As soon as I had entered the apartment, I could smell used condoms. Breathing was almost unbearable. The windows that were on the far side of the apartment were covered a light brown dirt, which smelled horrible and if touched turned to liquid. There was only one bed in the room but several chairs were around the room laid out so everyone would have a place to sit. I counted six chairs.  
We were robbing a seven eleven, why the bloody hell did we need six people?  
There were already three other people in the room. I was pleasantly surprised when I joined and no body that scary was here. Well, there was the man in the mask. But Geoff said he was fine and wouldn’t hurt me.   
Then there was knocking at the door. No body moved. This had happen before when Geoff had come in. we all just sat in silence wondering whether this was actually a good idea.   
Then the knock became someone trying to beat the bloody door down.  
“Bloody hell,” I said under my breath. Another gentleman with the red hair and beard glanced at me surprised. It had been the first time I talked, I suppose he was surprised hear I was British.   
I was about to say something when the man in the mask stood up and opened the door.  
Two men walked in through the door, one with complete confidence, and one who looked right nervous.   
The man with confidence had curly brown hair, and softer features. The way he walked indicated that he was a part of a gang, but his dark rimmed glasses made him seem like he was the smart gang leader.   
The man with no confidence was short with black hair. It was cut closely to his head. He looked Spanish. He had glasses as well, but his glasses made him appear geekier. He walked with his hands held closely to his chest as though he was afraid to touch anything. I completely understand this place was disgusting.   
Geoff Ramsey stood up. The mastermind behind it all. I briefly wondered how he’d met all these people, and why he had been unafraid to ask them to rob a seven eleven.   
The very first thing someone would notice about Geoff is that he smelled like alcohol. He had a curled up moustache which reminded me of the Mario brothers. His hair was dark, his eyes were sunk in. His posture was slouched. Overall, Geoff looked tired.   
“Alright gentlemen, I suppose we should all introduce each other.” He seemed sad. “Obviously you all know who I am so let’s going around the circle clockwise.”  
I bet he has children…   
Jack was the first to start.  
“Hello, my name is Jack.” That was pretty much all he said. He was red haired and a red beard. That’s pretty much all I saw.   
Then was mask man.  
“This gentleman is Ryan. He doesn’t talk much and prefers that most about whom he is remains disclosed.” Geoff answered for him.   
Ryan simply nodded then turned to stare at me. Right then, I suppose it’s my turn now.   
“Right, my name is Gavin.” I said maybe a little too enthusiastically.   
“British?” the man with confidence exclaimed. “I didn’t know this heist was international.” He sounded angry.   
“Gavin is joining us from Britain. He’s a friend.” Geoff explained.   
Yeah I was definitely a friend. I knew nothing about Geoff, only that he was nice enough to help rent an apartment for me.   
This by the way was this place.  
All eyes turned to the man with confidence.  
“My name is Michael. Don’t fuck this up for me.” His voice was harsh like it was in constant state of anger.   
“Hey, wait a second, I recognize you.” It was jack who spoke. “You’re Michael Jones. You’re that guy who got arrested for gang violence.”   
Michael looked down as though ashamed and then his head jolted up. He was about to say something but jack continued.   
“Yeah, I remember now. There was a gang fight in New Jersey; there were eighteen deaths in all. I remember that by the time the cops showed up it was too late for them. You were caught by accident. They caught you and they said they’d cut you a deal or something if you told them who was with you, but you refused to sell them out. You went to jail. I remember when the news lady said you broke out but that was a while ago. You’re a criminal.” Jack voice trailed off.   
There was silence around the room. Jack, Ryan and the man with no confidence seemed appalled. But I just sat quietly.  
“Well I’m glad you’re on our side.” I said it without thinking. It was just the first thing that popped in my head.   
“WHAT?” jack almost jumped in surprise.   
“If he is a criminal he’ll know what he’s doing more than any of us. And if we get caught, he won’t sell us out. He seems like a good chap.”   
Michael looked down once more and then to the roof. “I’m not going down for this.”   
We all nodded. Now of us wanted to go to jail. I suppose out of all of us, Michael was the least interested in going to jail.  
“Sorry.” Was all Jack said, to be honest, he didn’t actually need to say it. All he’d really said were facts.   
We all sat in silence for a couple seconds. It didn’t stop until Geoff nodded towards the final member.   
“Hi.” He sounded like he was trying really hard not sound nervous. “My name is Ray.”  
“Are you Spanish?” I blurted out. Once again I had said the first thing that came to mind. Bad habit.   
Ray looked like he was about to respond no. But he was cut off before he could even start.   
“He looks Mexican. He probably is. We have all sorts of immigrants coming over the border.” Jack explained. I thought this was the explanation and it was over. But Michael spoke up.   
“He’s Puerto Rican.”   
We all stood in silence once more. Ray just stared at the floor. Wow we are racist. Ray didn’t say anything though. I think we all took it as good sign.   
“Well that’s the gang. Do we have any problems?”  
No one said anything. Obviously the room was tense as all hell but Geoff didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.   
“Alright” Geoff said with an amount of finality in his voice. He pulled out a map and taped it on to a wall.  
“This is Los Santos.”


End file.
